The Hanged Man: Part 3: Samhain
Post #19: In which a young man finds his family ...
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CHAPTER 10
The sea was a revelation to Morfran. Nothing prepared him for this threshold place where land and water met. The sea was utterly unlike anything he’d ever imagined, yet in some indefinable way he felt he’d come home. Something inside him woke, stretched, and came painfully and joyfully to life. He, who had learned so well the shape of his soul in order to master the art of shapeshifting, now discovered -- or uncovered? -- new dimensions. He was awed. He was humbled. He was broken open. And like so many others, he discovered the healing, calming power of the sea’s indifference. It was mystery beyond mystery, depth beyond depth, unknowable, indefinable. It was itself and breathed and stretched to its own unfathomable rhythm. Nothing he could say or do, be or feel would ever make the slightest impression on it.
He’d wondered how to choose which direction to follow the coast in his search for a ruined castle. In the end, he didn’t choose. He merely followed the easiest way. His twisted leg made travel along the coastline challenging and, at times, dangerous. Yet it never occurred to him to turn inland and find an easier path. He didn’t want to leave the sight and smell and sound of the sea.
Until now his whole journey had consisted of steady movement towards a goal. He’d traveled through landscapes and villages, observing, listening, taking little, giving what he could, passing over mile after mile, focused and dogged. Now all that changed. He didn’t think of goals at all. He wasn’t sure he thought of anything. Part of him seemed to go to sleep while an unfamiliar part of him woke. The wash of water, the sound and rhythm of waves, filled him. He’d sit down on a bank in morning sun and suddenly realize afternoon had come and a bolster of fog hid the water, magnifying the endless sound of surf.
He cut and bruised himself climbing on slippery rocks. He explored tide pools, marveling over different kinds of life there. He watched birds. He picked up shells, bones and all manner of strange debris. He collected driftwood to burn at night and became familiar with ropes of seaweed floating in shallows or cast up on shore. His dark skin grew darker in the sun and his clothing stiffened with repeated wetting with saltwater.
One day he happened upon a sandy beach. It was a sunny day and the tide had scattered pieces of driftwood along the shore. He set down his bundles, took off his shoes and collected wood for his evening fire. He’d become familiar with tide patterns and took care now to leave his camp above the high-water marks. The sand felt warm and pleasantly rough and loose above the surf. He stood and looked out across the water, squinting in the strong light. A wave came in and he stepped back so as not to be wetted. Another came in, infinitesimally higher, and he stepped back again, smiling to himself. He predicted the apex of the next wave and stood waiting. Before he knew it, he was playing like a child, laughing, jumping back, getting splashed, trying to outrun the surf’s reach, and now and then finding himself unexpectedly up to his ankles.
At last he sat down, out of breath, smiling, wet to the knees. He’d gathered no driftwood. He couldn’t ever remember playing so lightheartedly before, but he could remember Creirwy doing so when they were children together, and the memory gave him no pain.
For many days Morfran saw no sign of another human being. One afternoon he slowly clambered his way across a rugged coastline with rocks the size of small cottages. He was bruised and tired and hungry and the wind rose, making whitecaps out in deeper water. He came to easier ground and found himself in a natural harbor with a handful of fishing boats and the welcome sight of clustered stone buildings. He’d lost count of how many days he’d been on his own with only the sea for companion. It was late in the day and fishermen made their boats fast against the coming storm. He found an inn where a good fire burned in a stone fireplace in the bar and the smell of food brought water to his mouth. He bought dark ale, a large bowl of fish chowder and half a loaf of bread. He thought he’d never eaten such a fine meal. He took his emptied bowl into the kitchen and asked for more, praising the cook extravagantly. The harsh lines of her face relaxed into a smile and she filled the bowl again and pushed into his hand the other half of the loaf, flapping her hands at him and telling him to get out from under her feet. He gave her an exaggerated bow and withdrew, chuckling, leaving her giggling like a girl behind him.
Morfran stayed for a couple of nights and let the storm pass. He was well fed and the place was comfortable. He made himself useful in keeping the fires going. A shed behind the inn housed goats and chickens, and he mended a hole in the roof where the rain came through, collected eggs and milked and cleaned out the animals, scattering fresh bedding.
He set out again on a calm, clear day. Early sun promised later warmth and he felt rested and ready to be off. He accepted with gratitude a heavy bundle of food from the cook, shook the innkeeper’s hand and set out. Beyond the harbor he found the going easier. The beach was stony but manageable and he kept a good pace, feeling energetic. He found all manner of interesting objects blown onto land by the storm. When the sun shone high in the sky, he stopped for a bite to eat and something to drink. He walked along a cliff base looking for a spot to stop in shade and relax. His eye fell on a stair.
For a moment, he simply stood and looked at it, not quite taking it in. Looking more closely, he discovered several worn and crumbling stone steps cut into the cliff face, twisting and turning to accommodate the landscape of rock. He stepped back onto firmer sand at the water’s edge and looked up. Above him, on the cliff top, stood the ruins of a castle.
As he ate, he told himself this ruin might not be the one Dar had spoken of. There was no way of knowing how many ruined castles were on this coast. He also told himself he must be careful on the steps. They looked steep and treacherous, and if he fell, he wouldn’t be found. He hadn’t shape shifted since he’d come to the sea. His sense of self had widened so unexpectedly he wasn’t absolutely certain he knew this new self all the way to the depths and edges. He might not be able to return easily to it. He also felt if he could somehow find his family or his history he wanted to come to it in his own shape, twisted and dark as it was. He wanted to be seen truly.
He made himself take time over the meal, resting his legs before climbing the stairs. He looked carefully for the high-water mark and wedged his bundle between two rocks. Then he put his foot on the bottom stair and began to ascend.
There were one hundred steps. He counted them as he climbed. For the most part, they were usable. Here and there rocks from the cliff had fallen onto them and he rolled these away. There were worn edges and in some places the stairs took sudden twists and turns, becoming steeper or narrower out of necessity. He found some hand holds. It occurred to him the journey up with one’s back to the sea might be easier than the journey back down. Perhaps this stairway constituted a short cut and there existed an easier, if longer, way down to shore from the castle. However, he wasn’t worried by heights and focused calmly on the next stair, moving steadily and without fear. The last few steps were shallow and brought him level with the cliff top. He stepped out onto short, scrubby turf, breathless and legs trembling with strain. He turned and looked out to sea. The ruins stood on a projection of land. To his left he saw the way he’d come. The cliff he stood on became less steep to his right and he could see an obvious path back down to the water in the stony slope on the other side of the castle. Around the curve of the cliff a circle of rocks protected a pool that looked deep now, as the tide flowed in.
He appeared to be in a ruined courtyard or garden. He found traces of a low stone wall and paving stones, partially covered by low-growing plants and grasses. The main body of the castle looked as though it was built to command a sea view in three directions, with part of a tower wall still thrusting into the air above the main part of the building. He moved about the ruins, trying to see the original structure’s shape. It had been large, but not as large as Bluebeard’s castle. There were traces of a main garden and perhaps some smaller ones, but those areas might once have been other buildings, fallen down or worn away. It was quiet and peaceful. The sun warmed exposed stone. He startled a wild rabbit and watched it bound away.
He sat against a stone wall. He relaxed and breathed, reaching out with his awareness for some faint sense of recognition, some lingering trace of those who’d built this place and lived here.
The sea’s sound filled his awareness. From here it sounded like the breathing of some unimaginably huge beast. For the first time, the sound wearied and irritated. If only it would stop for a minute so he could concentrate! He felt tension in his neck and shoulders and deliberately relaxed again. He mustn’t try so hard. It wasn’t a question of trying hard but of letting go of trying altogether, of softening, of opening…
The sea breathed. He wanted to go and look at it. He wanted to see how far the tide came in against the cliff. He wanted to go down to the rock pool…
He opened his eyes. If this place spoke to him, he couldn’t hear it. Perhaps this wasn’t the right place, after all. For a moment, he felt a deep sense of weariness and discouragement. He wanted to find out about his family. He’d traveled for so long and come so far. He thought, I’m alone! and felt surprised at the pain of it.
He got to his feet. The sea called to him. The ruins did not.
He made his way to the other side of the castle. The slope from here down to shore was no worse than many hillsides he’d walked at home. He wondered who cut the steps, and why. Why take such trouble when the way was so much easier on this side?
Day wore away and the tide came in high. It didn’t quite reach the cliff but he thought in stormy weather the surf might break against it, explaining some of the wear on the lower stairs. The pool filled until just the tops of the surrounding rocks showed. From the shore, it looked quite deep. It made a beautiful place to swim, with clean water entering twice a day and the protection of the rocks. He wondered if the castle owners made it or if it was a natural formation.
Morfran thought about making camp up in the relative shelter of the ruins but felt reluctant to move that far from the sea. The weather promised clear and fine. In some places, high seas had undermined the cliff, and he found a hollow under a shelf of rock. He built himself a fire of driftwood and unrolled his blankets. The stars seemed large and near, hanging over him with a golden light. The sea breathed. He felt unable to leave this place and yet it seemed pointless to stay. Perhaps in the morning he’d see his way more clearly.
He lay for a long time, somewhere between waking and sleeping, cradled between fire and water.
He woke. The sea breathed loudly in his ears. He could see golden firelight behind his closed eyelids and a piece of driftwood popped fiercely. He knew it was sending blue sparks into the air. What had awakened him? His body felt relaxed and warm. The sand underneath him molded itself to his shape… He opened his eyes and came fully awake. The fire shouldn’t be blazing. He’d slept for hours. He sat up in his blankets.
A man sat cross-legged in the sand on the other side of the fire. No, not a man, he thought immediately. The shape of a man but not a man. Morfran had an impression of age. The stranger was bare chested in the firelight, but it wasn’t the chest of a young man. Muscles in his arms and shoulders looked tough but his skin was without youth’s elasticity. Grizzled hair sprinkled his chest. Thick, twisted ropes of hair were gathered back together and bound with a thong behind his neck. His lower half was in darkness and firelight threw strange shadows onto his face. His eyes gleamed in their sockets and the blade of his cheek jutted strongly.
“Why did you come here?” he asked.
“I’m in search of my family,” replied Morfran.
“Tell me,” commanded the old man.
Morfran told him about Bala Lake, the drowned castle and his lost parents, and his search for a ruined castle by the sea, though he didn’t speak of Creirwy, the Firebird or the peddler.
The old man listened intently, never taking his eyes off Morfran’s face.
When Morfran had said everything he intended to say and fallen silent, they sat across from one another without words. Morfran was conscious of the old man reaching out silently to him, brushing against his mind. He wasn’t afraid and deliberately held himself soft and open to the gentle probing. He wished to hide nothing and felt no sense of threat or harmful intent, but rather a vivid curiosity on the part of the other. Morfran became alert to the old man’s breathing pattern, knowing aligning himself with it would help them enter into connection. He found, to his wonder and surprise, that the older man’s breathing was slow, about once a minute, much too slow for Morfran. He was certainly not a man.
“Go back to sleep now,” the stranger said. “We’ll see each other again.”
And Morfran, with no sense of danger or anxiety, rolled himself back in his blankets and lay down, sliding easily into sleep.
He awoke to the sound of drumming. The fire burned low. Dawn approached. As he drifted back into consciousness, he thought maybe he only heard the eternal heartbeat of the sea. He opened his eyes and listened. No, the sound of a drum wove with the sound of water.
He pulled on his clothes. The eastern sky held just a hint of coming light. He couldn’t see stars. It was the coldest part of the night. The air felt heavy with moisture. It would be a cloudy morning.
The drumming seemed to come from everywhere. It wasn’t loud, but it penetrated the wet air, somehow relentless. It was as though the sea itself drummed. He turned in a circle, listening.
Then singing began. Singing? It didn’t seem the right word. A voice rose and fell, threading through the drum’s rhythm. There were no words. Morfran thought if rocks gave voice to endless eons with sea washing around their roots, or if driftwood could tell of the seed it grew from and the land in which it lived before the long water, it would sound like this. It was a song of inexorable ebb and flow of light, of life, of water, of clouds. It made the hairs on his arms and neck rise. It was beautiful. It was terrible. It was absolutely wild. It made him want to run and shout, or cry, or hide his face and stop his ears. He felt overwhelmed, undone, wanting it to stop and yet wanting it never to stop. The tide flowed. The overcast sky lightened so gradually from black to grey he didn’t see it happen. As though dawn clarified his hearing, he realized the drumming came from the cliff top. It came from the castle ruins.
He walked down to meet the incoming tide and turned to look up at the cliff top. He saw nothing but the ruined tower looking out to sea. He stood listening, careless of the cold surf washing first around his feet and then his ankles.
Then both drumming and singing stopped, leaving only the restless sea. Morfran didn’t move. He couldn’t move. Something must happen and he waited for it.
A figure appeared on the cliff top, right on the furthest edge of the finger of land jutting into sea. Morfran recognized the old man. He stood there, looking out to sea, silhouetted against the low sky. The naked figure radiated power and something else… Morfran kept his eyes on the figure but softened his gaze, breathed… Grief. Had the song been a lament, then? For whom did the old man grieve so wildly?
Then, with the grace and strength of a much younger man, the old man launched himself into a dive. Morfran cried out in shock. The figure seemed to hang in the heavy grey air like a bird, graceful and confident. Then the figure plunged into the pool surrounded by rocks, cleaving the water cleanly and disappearing.
Without thinking, Morfran shifted into crow shape. He flew up from the beach and over the pool but the water’s surface foamed and surged with the incoming tide and he couldn’t see below it. He flew low over the pool, shifted into the form of a fish and splashed into the water.
It was not like Bala Lake. The water felt strange, thick and buoyant. He could see nothing. The world was green and gray, bubbles and surge and foam. He swam deeper, into less tumultuous water, but still could see nothing, and the sea roared in his ears. Bala Lake had been utterly quiet. The powerful suck and surge disoriented and exhausted. He didn’t know what he hoped to do—help the old man? Save his life? In this wild water? He wasn’t sure he could save himself. Yet he felt frantic—panicked. He must find him! He must!
Then, rising powerfully underneath him on its way to the surface, thrust a huge fish. It was ten times, nearly twenty times his own fish size. As it slid past, he glimpsed a powerful tail covered in scales. He rose up with it and saw a man’s body, bare chested, and floating ropes of grizzled hair bound together with a thong.
The shock of what he saw jerked him out of his fish shape and back into his own. The transition felt abrupt and clumsy, almost painful. He took in a mouthful of saltwater. He kicked, trying to get his head above water, and a wave broke over him. He thrashed, trying to get his bearings. The tide pulled at him, then pushed. He could see nothing but waves and they slapped at him like powerful hands, confusing his senses. He couldn’t catch his breath. He felt completely helpless. Then an arm came around his chest and held him fast. Morfran’s panic receded. He wasn’t alone. Whoever held him so closely wasn’t afraid. He remembered he was a good swimmer and loved water. He filled his lungs with air and wiped stinging saltwater out of his eyes. The other was pulling him towards one of the rocks that ringed the pool. Morfran reached up and patted the arm in signal that he wanted to swim on his own. The arm released him and together they swam the few yards to the rock.
Morfran turned and looked into old man’s face. His eyes were the color of Morfran’s own, a clear, far-seeing grey. He wore thick gold hoops in his ears and there were scars on his shoulders and the arm that anchored him to the rock. He laid a hard, callused hand tenderly against Morfran’s wet, cold cheek. He smiled but tears slid out of his eyes and mingled with drops of seawater.
“Grandson.”
Morfran came into his arms like a child. The sea lifted and sank around them. They held fast to the rock and each other, and together they wept.
(This post published with this essay.)